November 27, 2009

The fourth and last time I debated at the Oxford Union was three or four years ago, and it was a total disaster. The motion was that Katrina’s aftermath was Bush’s fault, and I was against it. A quarter of a century before that, Auberon Waugh and I had wiped out the opposition under the leadership of a very young—in his twenties—Charles Moore. Another victory followed some years later, but the subject escapes me as if in a dream. A beautiful young student asked me if it were true I went to Annabel’s every night and whether I would take her there—which I did, and we spent the next week hiding from her outraged father. Charlie Glass and I made mincemeat out of Lord Parkinson and Nicholas Soames about five years ago, and then I hit a snag with Katrina.

I was up last and blaming Louisiana’s crooked politicians for having pocketed the federal funds allocated for flood protection, when an extremely obese African-American student asked to be recognized. “I almost starved to death waiting for the government to help,” she began, when I interrupted her interruption with “well, you could do with a bit of a diet..” Well, I never! Had I streaked in front of Queen Victoria’s funeral cortege, the reaction would have been milder. Young people booed and some walked out. A particularly annoying type in front of me—yes, he was wearing an anorak—screamed that I was drunk—he was half right—and the lady in question burst into tears. For once I was at a loss for words. It was all downhill after that and I haven’t been invited back.

Which brings me to the point I wish to make. You can pee on an icon of our Lord Jesus, as a comedian did last month on an American TV show, and pretend that our Lord was crying, and people find it funny, but God forbid when young Taki makes a joke about a fat black woman. The grievance brigades are out in force and watching us. When the beautiful Kate Moss said that nothing tastes as good as skinny, the brigades began shooting as if it were the glorious 12th. The tabloids went ballistic, and lambasted Kate for saying what we all know to be true: It’s better to be thin than fat. Although she never mentioned the word anorexia, the hysterics went on until poor Kate ate humble pie, without throwing it up, mind you.

My, my! We all know that PC is a persistent form of untruthfulness, a pretension that things are different from what they are, but lately it has become so coercive, it’s threatening the way we think and the way we behave. As everyone knows, in a P.C. world, humour is a capital offence, and although I left Oxford with my head still connected to my neck, it will be a long time before I try telling a 300- pound African-American woman that she should try dieting. No siree, no Sir Thomas More for me.

And no Sir Thomas More for Dave, either.  This is why he’s already in poo, six to eight months before the election. Dave Cameron is a smart fellow but he is outsmarting himself by reverting to the kind of cynical opportunism the British public is so sick of, the kind of contempt for the public Tony Blair and his ilk have been practicing from the day they conned themselves into power. It doesn’t take great brain power to know that posing for the cameras in front of crosses for dead soldiers on Remembrance Day is what a spiv would do, not a statesman. Photo ops are what spivs thrive on, or Paris Hilton types. Cameron should ditch his PR advisers and play it by ear. It’s an easy thing to do. Follow your instincts, dickhead, and do the opposite that PR sharks tell you to do.

For example: Answer questions about the EU, don’t be slippery or vague. Recognise the fact that the British people are desperate for honesty, not spin, and give them some. Denounce human rights as defined by unelected Brussels bureaucrooks, answer truthfully what you plan to do about mass immigration, and most importantly, what you will do about the loss of sovereignty to Brussels. Wear a necktie, stop holding hands with your wife as if you were Siamese twins, and start earning the trust of the people. Tell the press to go to hell, especially the BBC, and stop hounding anyone who thinks Enoch Powell was a very great man. Which he certainly was. Far, far greater than you will ever be. Do what young Taki advises you to do, and you might be a man someday, my son.

Oh, I almost forgot. What about Herman Van Rompuy, pronounced “Ram pow,” as in pow, right on the kisser. The EU men in grey sure did us a favour by slapping down Tony Blair, but then another pow, right on our kisser, when they stuck us with that Blair baroness, whatever her name is, kiss my Ashton or something. These two will truly stop traffic, especially in a merry-go-round at a fair. I am so excited I can’t wait to get back to Europe and attend their coronation. Ram Pow right on the kisser and Baroness Kiss my Ashton. It’s brilliant, it’s delightful, its delirious, it’s de-lovely.


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